Forgotten in the Morgue
by planet p
Summary: AU; not a death fic! Rated M for bad language, yes, I know, lame. Miss Parker is unwell, and Lyle can’t decide whether to visit her or not.


**Forgotten in the Morgue** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _the Pretender_ or any of its characters.

* * *

She's lying in a bed of plain green linen and too soft pillow and too hard mattress, in a room in a ward in Med Space, lost in unconsciousness.

He wouldn't dare take a seat from Med Space reception, or the coffee room, or one of the other rooms, and sit it down in her room and just sit there, watching her, or not watching her. He's sure that'd be a bad idea, in the first.

Instead, he sits outside her room, on the floor, listening to the sound of her breathing and beating heart he's sure that only he can hear from here, through this wall, and all of the distance. He puts the sound to the back of his mind, never quite putting it out of his mind, and listens to the other sounds of Med Space instead; to the sounds of walking feet, sometimes striding, sometimes shuffling, of material scuffing and rustling and shifting, to coughing and scratching on walls, or doors, or floors, to sniffing and murmuring and sighing, to whispering and moaning and yelping, to Brown's Welsh accent, and Raines's sometimes British one, to Sydney's Belgian accent, when he occasionally gets snoopy, or just comes up to read the notice boards _because_ he _is_ employed under Med Space.

He separates out accents and inflections and intonations, figuring just where someone's come from, and where they've been, and the sort of mood they're maybe in. He's noticed that about himself, how he'll sound different – almost like a different person – when his mood is different, or when he's thinking on the past, or some such.

She's still there, sleeping soundly through all of the quiet racket, though he knows her _sleep_ is anything but sound; it's quicksand, and tumbledown, and sharp rocks like pieces of flint, clattering, banging and softly murmuring. It's disturbing, but it's how he knows it's her.

It's happy, too, upon chance occasion, but mostly sad, sad and misunderstood and misleading and interrupted and continuous.

He'd never go into her room, right?

In the state that she's in, he's afraid that he'd make it much worse. He's afraid because he knows, but he doesn't know; what he knows is of little consequence, and what he doesn't is of great consequence.

He knows that he loves her, however unfair that is, but love's never been his strong point, he's always got it all wrong, somehow, and, to her mind, and increasingly to his, he's still getting it all wrong, still. He can't trust love alone, love messes things up. It always has.

As a child, he wanted to believe that love was good, and, as he grew up, he knew that it was, but that just wasn't all that it was. It was very bad, too; sick, and twisted, and tragic, and evil. He'd hesitate to use such a strong word for such an often softly considered emotion, but it's undeniably true.

He loves her, and she hates him, and if he was her, he'd hate him right back, all the way to Hell, and then some!

In his mind, this is clear. Maybe, it's not just hate that she feels for him, all of the time, or, maybe, there's something to be said for her feeling _anything_ for him, or at him, at all.

But he's always known that love and hate are the same word for the same damn thing, because who can tell the difference, and, in the end, he hesitates to blindly believe that it even matters. Maybe nothing in this whole damn world – what is that? – matters, yet it does, all of it, all the time, it matters so, so much!

He wants to make it better for her, yet he hesitates to use that word, cannot do anything but hesitate, and revise. He wants to make it, not manageable, but maybe bearable. Only she can make it manageable, or see the will to do so, only she can do that, because it's her he's talking about, it's not him, or Sydney, or Broots, or some other someone. It's her.

He doesn't bear to ponder upon the thought of where he'd be, and what he'd be, if he'd never had another to concern himself upon. He doesn't think he'd be much, much worth anything, at all, if at all. Maybe he'd have gone mad, not mentally ill mad, mind, all the way mad. It's a different sort of mad, that, he thinks.

The mad of will, of one's own will; when one looks upon their life and memories and experiences and says, Well just now, no, this is wrong, I think I'll make it better, I think I'll make it different, and changes everything about it, the context, the reason, just everything, and thinks that this can mean something, that this can be a guiding light, or star.

It's the sort of mad that isn't right, and he's tried his hardest to never ever be _that_ mad, to look upon what happened as happening then – when it happened – and not to look upon them years later, and say, Hey, I don't like that at all, let's make some changes, let's make me hard done by, let's make me absolutely disgusted. It isn't change that's bad, he thinks, he'd never thought of it that way, but it's the wrong sort of change. What was was, the change that happens now, in the present, and into the future, that's the change that matters, that's the change worth waiting for, worth giving a damn for.

He wouldn't go in there, but he wants so much to do so. He wants to be her brother, for himself, and for her, too. It isn't that he isn't, already, her brother, but it's somehow not the same. It's the years that have gone by, the things that have happened, and all of it so different, and all of it so much of the same. It's her and him, and it's never they, or them.

In her mind, it's impossible, simply not possible, he's who he is, he's her brother, too, somewhere in there, and she's who she is, and she's his sister, too, in a way, in the most ridiculous way, their siblings, after all, by blood, by genetics, but he's not what she wanted, and he's not what she needs, and she just, _just_ doesn't.

It's not as though anyone's ever been able to choose their family, at least, not in the sense that people think as people, as beings walking upon the earth, but it's different, it's her mind made up, and it's firmly made up.

In a way, their so similar, their minds firmly made up, but, every once in a while, just for a little while, just a little bit, something will slip somewhere, somehow, except, that never be her, about him, and he can't bring himself to want it so much, though he knows he does, deep down, he does, does, does.

But that'd be wrong, that'd be selfish, so selfish, and he can't do it, not to her.

But what he's doing, isn't that selfish, too?

Withholding, and lying, and all of that, all of that deceit and deception and misinformation, and misgivings. Isn't that wrong too? Shouldn't it be _her_ choice, should it be the _best_ choice that she can possibly make under the circumstances, everything being as it is, no fact left undisclosed, no stone left unturned?

And here he is, and he's gone and bloody decided what he, _what he_, thinks is the best bloody decision for her! Isn't that so wrong?

It is, in all truth, no black or white, or right or wrong, just what is is, and what isn't isn't – as if he'd ever know, anyway, what was and what wasn't, as if he could _say_, as if he could _trust_ – but it's not right, not at all, but he loves her, he _loves_ her and he's making this decision for her because, damn it, he bloody loves her and it's about him, isn't it, it's not about her anymore, and if that makes her feel used, and abused, then he's bloody glad, he's bloody _ecstatic_, that she'll never ever know; he's glad to let her think what she thinks and spare her the extra confusion and torment and questions why, bloody why!

That doesn't make it right, doesn't make it any righter, but he'll let it pass, he'll let it pass _her_, because who'd ever said right was right and wrong was wrong and what was that anyway?

He's handling it, but he's not at all sure she'd do so, and he's making that _assumption_ again, making decisions _for her again_, but bloody heck, he's the only one that knows, and he's bloody got the right to, hasn't he! He's his own being, as much as one can be their own being, and his making – he's made – his mind up, and he's sticking to it, down to the last dot the 'i's and cross the frigging 't's, and if she doesn't like it, well, she doesn't know, so what's there not the like?

He's done it already!

He'd told himself that he was done with it all, with the controlling, and selected truths, and selected lies.

But not with her. Never with her.

It's just never going to happen, never going to be a reality. How can it be when he loves her so much.

Sometimes he thinks that's all love is, I love you, so now let me control you, no, let me tell you what, who, why, where, when, you do, are, can, because I know, I know so much better, I know you, I love you.

But it's not. It's not really. Really, he's so fucking damaged, it's laughable, in a crazy, slanted, sick way!

Love has always been tragic, in differing capacities, and levels, and it's always going to be so, and if it's not, then, heck, there'll always be someone willing to believe it so, to make it so, in their mind.

I love you, I said so. I know, alright! I _just_ frigging know!

It's too horrible, to fucking wrong, to contemplate, after all of the others, after all of the rest of it, but he's not done yet, he's not giving up yet.

If it all ends in ruin, then she'll know, she'll know once and for all, all she truly deserves to know about him, because she'd not deserve the other stuff, she'd never – _she's never_ – done anything so horrible, to deserve any of that, not even an ounce, but it was thrust on her anyway, just bloody shoved up in her face, and down her throat, and if it all goes to wrack and ruin, if it all goes to Hell, then he'd deserve no more.

He'd be the one in the _wrong_, and bloody Hell, she'd only be _right_ to leave him there to rot!

Maybe it was about time, maybe it should have happened long ago!

But not yet, not just yet. He's holding on, for the moment, so she can too. It's wrong to want to change the past, it's wrong to hold on so tightly to such things, to hold on so tightly that it's really the present, the future, that's being twisted, for the 'better,' or for the 'worse.' It's just completely, unfathomably wrong. But it's her. It's frigging her!

And he's not dead yet. They always told him that he was spectacular, in the early days, and maybe just, he believed them, maybe just, he looked at her and thought, yeah, I am, I can be, for her, maybe she was the one who was worth it all, maybe nothing had ever been worth anything without her.

He thought that could be it, as sick and fucked up as that sounded, and it sounded pretty damn fucked up!

But he wouldn't go in, that part he'd leave to her; that part wasn't his to control, or even really steer.

There was what some people termed 'responsible management,' and then there was 'responsible interaction,' he thought.

Of that part, she was the manager.

But he could hope, couldn't he? He couldn't bloody hope. And just anyone try to stop him, just let them try!

* * *

_The title comes from the song of the same name by Diamension X._

_I'd hazard a guess you'd find it hard going understanding this, but I really wrote it to help myself understand something better._

_Miss Parker is in Med Space (that's my name for it, though I think it's probably called the Renewal Wing), and Lyle is hesitant about visiting her. That's about the extent of it, which makes it pretty lame._

_Thanks for reading, all the same. No hard feelings?_

_P.S.: I sometimes get the feeling there's not enough words in the English language, or that I just don't know them, and it's very frustrating! :-( So mega annoying!_

_There are nicer – or should I say cleaner – words to say the same thing, I'm sure, I just don't know them. Unlucky for me, I guess. :-(_


End file.
